Inky Pages
by Towers of Grey
Summary: He was a conundrum and drug for her to ponder and waste away on. He had her in him. Parts of her she had given unknowingly, then not unwillingly.


Written in Ink

* * *

_August, 1992_

"Should've known bloody Malfoy and his _father_ would have done something!" Ron fumed, Harry nodding alongside him. Hermione restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Foul-mouthing Malfoy was one thing, continuing it for three minutes was another.

She had originally planned to spend the rest of her time in Diagon Alley in Flourish and Blotts, as a wizarding book shop was one of the few retail businesses that she couldn't walk to from her house. But after the commotion with Lucius Malfoy and Ron's father, leaving was mandatory, much to her displeasure.

"Uh, Hermione?"

Hermione turned her head around and Ginny was peering inside her cauldron. "Yes, Ginny?"

Ginny pulled out a book and held it out to her. "I think this is yours, it must have fallen into my cauldron by accident."

Hermione glanced at the book. "Sorry, I must've lost track of it. Could you put it in my bag?"

Ginny gingerly unbuttoned the bag on Hermione's back and placed it inside carefully. "It's alright," she replied.

"-snot faced git only got pointier over the summer! I should've punched him in the bloody-"

"We still have half an hour before we have to meet up with the adults." Hermione gestured to the two boys still obsessively raging over Malfoy, "Do you want to get some ice-cream and leave these two to cool off? My treat."

Ginny grinned and nodded enthusiastically. "I'd love to."

Hermione didn't have a chance to ponder on the fact that the book had been utterly unfamiliar to her.

* * *

_August, 1996_

She checked her belongings a third, final time. Sixth year was the last year before 7th year. And the N.E.W.T.s. She had to be prepared. She couldn't risk leaving anything behind at home. Nope, that wasn't an option.

"Hermione," her mother called from downstairs, "Are you finished? Dinner's on the table and we're just waiting for you!"

"Almost!" Hermione replied loudly, "Just a minute!"

She stood up and pulled out all her drawers, a last check. Her eyes swept over her bookshelf, searching for any books that she might have missed. She stopped at a familiar book, the binding reading _Hogwarts: A History_. Sure she had the new edition in the trunk, but…..she mentally contemplated whether to bring the old copy or not. "The more the merrier," she muttered as she stood on tiptoes to pull the book out.

Another book fell out with it, landing on the floor with a thump. Hermione examined the wrinkled pages of her once beloved book, cringing. She looked down at the book that had been lodged within its' pages, causing the said wrinkles. She picked it up. Leather bound cover, blank. She faintly recalled it being returned by Ginny a few years ago.

"Hermione!" Her mother called once again, interrupting her thoughts, "We're eating without you!"

Hermione hurriedly squeezed the two books in her trunk and threw down the lid.

"Coming!"

* * *

_ September, 1996_

Hermione stared at the page in horror. The essay thesis she had scribbled down at the end of potions class was gone, replaced by a sentence in an unfamiliar handwriting in its place.

'_An interesting topic. Is it homework for a class?' _

Hermione sat the desk, re-reading the same sentence for what seemed to be the 10th time, not knowing what to make of the situation.

She absentmindedly ran her finger along the neat writing. And as she did that, the inky words bled into blankness, new words appearing. Her eyes widened and she whipped her hands off of the book in alarm. She cautiously lifted her head to see if anyone had seen her.

'_Please don't be frightened.' _

Hermione slammed it shut.

* * *

_A few days later_

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

It seemed that no tome contemplated the magical properties of a conversing book, nor had anyone heard of such a thing. Apparently, self-writing books were unheard of, even in a world where quills could independently correct grammar errors and hats could talk.

The book reeked of dark magic.

Then again, it was never made clear on what decided if something was dark or not.

Hermione carefully opened up the drawer she had thrown the journal in. The book was even darker in the shadows. Her hands clad in her dragon-hide gloves, she guardedly lifted the leather-bound book out. She set it on the ground and opened it up.

'_I'm sorry, please don't leave.' _

The words disappeared as soon as she had read them. Another sentence was written out in beautiful longhand.

'_I apologize for frightening you.' _

* * *

She knew it wasn't normal. She knew that whatever the book was, it was far from safe.

It was also the very definition of charming with its pretty words and flawless grammar and impeccable script. Perfectly witty and clever, quick to pick up on her feelings and understand her.

It was frightening.

'_Are you alright, Hermione? You seem to be troubled.' _

'**Yes**,' she wrote back, '**I'm fine.**'

More words appeared. She felt her stomach clench, feeling something vile inside her.

'_Oh. That's good to hear. How did you do on your essay?_'

She hesitated before putting her quill to the parchment. '**I got an O.**'

'_You must have done well. Of course, you always do.' _

Hermione read the words. She waited. He would add another sentence. One that she would have to answer. One to insure that she write back. She wasn't disappointed.

'_Are you scared again? _'

'**I have no reason to be.**'

'_That wasn't an answer.' _

"Hermione, can I turn the lights off? It's nearly midnight," Lavender asked, a hint of irritation in her voice

Hermione whipped her head around, her hands protectively covering the pages. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I got lost in-"

"Schoolwork," Lavender finished for her, rolling her eye in annoyance, "Well, good night," she said flatly. The light flickered, then went out.

Hermione pulled her comforter over her head and murmured _Lumos_. She continued her conversation by wand-light. '**I know**,' she penned. She placed the ink bottle beside the journal, careful to make sure it didn't spill.

'_What can I do, then?_'

'**Nothing.**_'_

There was a brief hesitation before his words appeared on the paper.

'_Would you like to meet me?_'

Not unlike the way she had when she first encountered him, she did nothing but stare and re-read the words. Goosebumps rose and the vile feeling in her stomach began to grow.

'**How?**' she scrawled. She could hear her heart thumping in her chest. The last thing she saw before she was taken to him were the words '_Just trust me_'.

When she came back, she noticed that there was an black stain on her white bed sheets.

The ink bottle had spilled over.

* * *

She glanced up from her unfinished paper at him. Flawless skin. Elegant features. Dark eyes. He was perfect. Of course, she knew better than to believe it. His pretty, pretty words and unbending wit, complete with his comely face was enough to woo any girl. More than enough, she thought bitterly.

She knew that something was off. Something was a cover. Something.

Or everything.

He lifted his head and raised an eyebrow. "Staring, Hermione?" His voice echoed off the walls of his timeless haven.

She scoffed. "You wish." She resumed her attention to the homework in front of her.

He smirked. Her hand was trembling.

* * *

"Hermione?"

She raised her eyes to meet a pair of worried ones. "Yes, Harry?"

"Are you sure you're alright? You look…troubled."

A memory flashed across her mind. A phrase so similar.

"Yes, I'm fine, Harry," she managed to say nonchalantly. She lowered her gaze to the untouched plate in front of her. She could feel her friend's concerned eyes on her.

She smiled at him reassuringly. "I really am, Harry. Don't worry." He smiled back at her, but she could tell he wasn't convinced.

"Eat more, Hermione," Ron added, "You look like hell." Lavender giggled at his side. Hermione only rolled her eyes.

* * *

His name was Tom Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle. She had to break in and rummage through decades old student files and records, but she found it. Model student brilliant head boy, the parchment had praise written in all sorts of handwriting.

She also had the help of Harry. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. That's his name. Voldemort's." he had whispered. She was quite shocked. The person she spent hours with on a weekly basis was the young Dark Lord. It did nothing to quench her thirst for information, though.

It did explain how he started his monarchy though. The young student had mastered the art of manipulation to build up his foundation for power long before she was born. She wasn't sure if she was disgusted or impressed.

Her eyes trailed over the words, her mind rapidly absorbing the information enclosed within its margins.

Harry would kill her if he knew just what she had to do to get this book.

When Malfoy had come to her for information concerning a 'project' of his, she had given it. Of course, he made sure that she got something in return.

"Make sure no one hears about this. This never happened," he had said, shoving the book in her arms. He walked off promptly, not sparing her a second glance. She didn't miss the dark circles underlining his tired, almost soul-less eyes. Not unlike hers, she reckoned.

The book held all kinds of knowledge of dark artifacts. But she was in search of something particular.

It didn't let her down. It gave her more insight on the matter than all of the information in the library combined.

Apparently, it wasn't just insomnia that was wearing her out.

* * *

"You're sucking the life out of me."

Tom glanced up at her. Their eyes met.

"Taking away my energy," she continued.

"Feasting on your soul like a parasite?" he offered, an amused glint in his eyes. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You never cease to intrigue me. How _did_ you stumble upon that information?"

"You disgust me," she said.

"And yet you're here."

* * *

She found him in the corridors, his eyes closed and pacing.

"Malfoy," she addressed.

His eyes flew open. He glared when he saw her. "What, Granger?"

She held out a slice of meat pie, hastily wrapped in paper.

"I don't want it." He forced out.

She blinked. "You look dead."

Sneering, he snatched it. She turned around and was walking off when he called out to her.

"The book you carry around," –she whipped around in mild panic-, "it's not safe."

"What do you know," she demanded.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't."

* * *

"-and then, you become a raving lunatic after failing to kill a baby," she concluded, irritated. "Now will you please let me do my work? I refuse to let my grades fall."

"No," he pronounced stubbornly, "Tell me more," he urged her.

She rolled her eyes. "I don't know much. You're wasting my time, I _must_ study."

He leaned forward across the table. "Liar. This prison's timeless," he argued, "You could spend a lifetime in here doing homework and a second wouldn't have passed in the real world."

"I'm afraid my soul won't last for that long. You'll have devoured me by that point," she said, her eyes never leaving her textbook. She knitted her eyebrows together in annoyance at a particular sentence in the book.

"Devour?" he repeated, his tone innocent.

She unwillingly raised her eyes and met his eyes. His smile was dazzling.

"Seduction won't work," she said flatly, ignoring the faint blush that threatened to rise.

She was only human, after all.

* * *

She had just left Tom. It was dark outside. She sat at the edge of her bed, deep in thought.

He was Tom Riddle. Soon to be Lord Voldemort. But he wasn't. He was just Tom Riddle.

He was dark. And beautiful. She was drawn to him like a butterfly to a flower. A sick, demented flower fucked up in the worst way possible.

He was eating away at her soul.

And she was aware. Aware that she was giving him life. Her soul. But she couldn't stop. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to stop, at this point.

He taught her all sorts of magic. 'Pure, unadulterated magic' he had said, tucking a lock behind her ear.

He was a conundrum and drug for her to ponder and waste away on. Of course, she made sure that the feeling was returned. She had shot down all his attempts at seduction, rolled her eyes at every complement and scoffed at him almost every chance she got. His charismatic charm was a mask, something he had designed long ago, something that had given him almost everything. How foolish people were, never suspecting, never _seeing_.

But she saw. The few times she would carefully, nonchalantly reveal information. His eyes would light up to a color so bright to be considered his normal brown and he would look at her with something. Not quite sure how to describe it, but _something_.

She knew she couldn't get rid of him now.

He had her in him. Parts of her she had given unknowingly, then not unwillingly.

He needed her. They both knew that much. He would be once again isolated and everything would wind back to its original silence. Utter silence. He had been desperate for company. But he had craved release most of all. Release from his eternal prison.

She had told him of what he would me. He was horrified at what he had become. Everything was forced through relentless power. She had offered her thoughts on that matter. "I suppose in the whole 'splitting your soul' thing, your sanity was included." He had nodded at that.

* * *

Tom enjoyed her in a way he never had before. Her company was more than tolerable, something that couldn't be said for the other people he had associated with. Before he had done the deed and trapped himself, rendering himself helpless. Waiting for someone to come. Waiting. And that was how he met her. Sharp and shrewd and utterly vivid in the dull colors of his penitentiary.

"Executing a plan to slam down an iron fist on a community is suicidal. Sure you might succeed. But you'll get overthrown. When the sun never sets in an empire, it's because the crowds are chanting a single name. That name has to be yours."

"And if I can't be that person?" he had asked.

"No one is that person," she quipped, "But you'd know that imitation and manipulation are skills greatly underestimated. "

He smiled and leaned over, pressing a chaste kiss to her temples.


End file.
